


Alistair's Luck

by Ginipig



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Dragon Age - Freeform, Female!HOF, Gen, Hawke stays in the Fade, Just Alistair doing some thinking, M/M, Mild mentions of Cullistair, No Smut, Warden Alistair, Warden Ultimate Sacrifice, alistair - Freeform, and an OC daugther, female!Warden, or plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: Alistair reflects on the luck that brought him to this point in his life.





	Alistair's Luck

Alistair awoke feeling so sore he could barely move. He grinned at the memories of last night; the last time he’d felt this sore after anything was back during the Blight.

Which, now that he thought about it, was fifteen years ago. Damn, he was getting old.

He tried to ignore the thought, but that just meant his mind honed in on it faster. Fifteen years meant his internal ticking clock was, at best, halfway to its final destination.

Thirty years, Duncan had told him. Back before … well, _everything_. (Except Cullen. Hardly anything — or anyone — went back that far with Alistair.)

Thirty years, Duncan had said when he’d woken after. Thirty years had seemed like forever back then. It was a decade longer than he’d been alive! And it wasn’t like he had much to live for anyway. No family, no real friends, no past (the Wardens wiped that clean), and now no future. What did he care? If he could do something with his life, save even one person, well — that was better than a lot of people.

Thirty years from the Joining, Duncan had said, minus a bit as a reward for fighting during a Blight. But Alistair was their newest member. He wouldn’t need to worry too much about that.

Thirty years from the Joining, and that was if Alistair was lucky, which he absolutely wasn’t — Wardens didn’t get lucky. Unless bad luck counted. Bad luck he had in spades. Bad luck had sent him to the Tower of Ishal to light a signal fire with the only Warden he outranked. Bad luck had them fighting for their lives, finally lighting the signal, but it hadn’t mattered because that bastard Loghain retreated anyway. Bad luck had them barely surviving an ogre before Flemeth, a Maker-damned Witch of the Wilds, saved them. Bad luck — _astounding_ bad luck — left them the only survivors. Worse luck had them trying to stop a blighted … well, _Blight_ double-handedly. Two green Grey Wardens against an archdemon and its entire darkspawn army. Horrible luck, then — new friends, almost a family, working together to help people and build their own army. (Why horrible? Because with Alistair’s luck, they wouldn’t stick around. No one ever did.) Truly terrible luck — though Eamon had called it his _duty_ as the bastard son of Maric — took him to the Landsmeet as a contender for the Fereldan throne.

In the second real decision he’d ever made in his life to that point, he told them all to sod off; he was a Warden by choice, not a king by birth, and that was the duty he meant to fulfill.

The fate of a kingdom settled, what had seemed their first streak of good luck (a third Warden in Ferelden!) gave them their worst luck yet — the news that a Warden had to die to kill the archdemon. Riordan was the senior Warden; he’d be the one. Ha! Not with Alistair’s astonishingly bad luck! After Riordan died in the attempt, the only two remaining, horrifically unlucky Wardens in all of Ferelden agreed that Alistair would kill the archdemon.

But he had the worst luck of any man alive. His leg had been injured in the battle against the dragon. And the woman who’d led them, who had been his friend and companion since the beginning, who understood all that he’d been through, who was like a sister to him (more than Goldanna ever was), who had _sworn to him_ he would be the Warden to die — in the end, she pushed him, just enough to jar his injury. He was faster than her, but his bad luck, that perfectly ill-timed shove, bought her the few seconds she needed to beat him.

And then he was the only one left.

Just his fucking luck.

Thirty years, Duncan had said that day, minus nebulous (but likely significant) amounts of time for good behavior — like, say, helping defeat an archdemon, or staying to rebuild (and then re-rebuild) the Wardens for over a decade after.

So, probably significantly fewer than thirty years from the day of his Joining, fifteen years ago. For the first ten years, he hadn’t cared. Only his bad luck had kept him alive for so long. And sooner or later, all luck — even bad luck — ran out.

Sure enough, his did.

The Calling came early — far earlier than even the older, non-Fereldan Wardens he’d met along the way had estimated. But what did they know, anyway? _They_ hadn’t fought in a Blight. Alistair was the lucky bastard with that lovely privilege. But that wasn’t how they saw it. The Calling had come for them all, and they devised a truly horrendous plan. (And Alistair would know; he’d hatched plenty of them himself in his life.) A plan he was smart enough to figure out but far too lucky — the bad kind, of course! — to know how to stop. Desperate, he’d called an old sort-of friend for help.

And that was when his luck changed. Because Hawke led him to Varric, and Varric led him to the Inquisitor, who led him to the Inquisition … which led him to Cullen.

Cullen was the first _good_ thing to happen to him since Duncan asked him to join the Wardens. And the one person with worse luck than Alistair was Hawke, so Alistair’s comparatively good luck let him return alive and well (if more beat up than ever before) from the Fade. Better luck had Cullen falling in love with him, too, in spite of Corypheus and the war and darkspawn and lyrium withdrawals and every other obstacle that told them they couldn’t be happy.

And then Alistair’s now truly, wonderfully, beautifully _good_ luck had him splitting off from his Wardens so they could all better search for a group of darkspawn. His _great_ luck got him caught in a storm, where he took shelter in a house, where a poor family’s worst luck became his absolute best — the darkspawn had orphaned but spared a baby girl named Elodie. Luckily, they made it back safely to Skyhold, where luckily, he fell in love with her, and so did Cullen, and the adoptive family was luckily horrible and the Inquisitor and Leliana luckily decided he and Cullen could adopt her instead. And Alistair’s finally good luck had brought them through the end of the war and the Inquisition to the here and now — a well-deserved, quiet retirement for two warriors to raise their little girl.

But sooner or later, all luck — especially good luck — ran out.

Thirty years minus fifteen for time served, minus _x_ for his unlucky timing equaled fifteen years minus _x_ until the return of his bad luck with the song he’d welcomed before, but now …

Now he never wanted to hear it again.

Because Elodie was five plus fifteen years minus _x_ equaled twenty years minus _x_. He’d been with Cullen a little less than six plus fifteen years minus _x_ equaled twenty-one years minus _x_.

Only twenty-one years minus _x_ with Cullen. And Elodie would only be twenty years old minus _x_ when Alistair’s good luck ran out.

Even if _x_ was zero, meaning he had all thirty years — ha! Alistair wasn’t that lucky! — twenty years wasn’t enough time. Not for Cullen, and certainly not for Elodie.

And what if _x_ was fifteen? Thirty minus fifteen equaled _fifteen_. Which meant Alistair’s luck was already out.

Thirty years from the Joining, Duncan had told him, back before everything.

What Alistair wouldn’t give to tell his younger self that thirty years wasn’t enough. Not with his bad luck.

But without his bad luck, more than thirty years would have been too long without much to live for. No family, no real friends, no past (not that anyone wanted to claim, anyway), and no future but, what? The Templars? No Cullen (not _his_ Cullen, anyway), certainly no Elodie.

Shit. Had his bad luck been good luck all along? Was twenty years minus _x_ better than nonexistent?

Fifteen years ago, Duncan had said that Grey Wardens didn’t form attachments. Their job, fighting darkspawn and defeating Blights, was too important.

Now, Alistair wondered if it wasn’t the other way around. Maybe fighting darkspawn was important because the Wardens had no attachments.

But Alistair had broken the rules. He’d formed attachments. And if he’d broken one rule, could he break others?

With his luck, maybe he could.

And if he couldn’t? Well, twenty minus _x_ years with the people he loved — only fifteen minus _x_ years left — would have to be good enough.

It was more than some got.

Wasn’t that just his luck?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is standalone, BUT (shameless plug) this story was supposed to be a chapter in my fic [Of Love and Duty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16874424/chapters/39627660) and kind of ... grew into something else. So if you're interested in their story(ies), head there!


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